Thomas Enger: Scarred

‘Hey,’ Bjarne says and smiles. ‘That’s my occupational hazard.’

‘What is?’

‘Being on the lookout for villains.’

‘Ah.’

Sandland is embarrassed and laughs.

‘Always on the job?’ he asks.

‘Always.’

A waiter brings their beers.

‘Are you hungry?’ Bjarne asks her.

He realises that he wants to keep her to himself for as long as possible, but Sandland shakes her head. Bjarne nods to dismiss the waiter who disappears immediately.

Silence descends on the table. Sandland takes a sip from her glass, sends her gaze on a new voyage of discovery before she suddenly turns it on him.

‘So – who will be our new Justice Secretary, do you think?’ she asks.

Bjarne shrugs.

‘It makes no difference to me. It won’t affect how I do my job.’

‘But the way she resigned was really very odd.’

Bjarne makes a ‘whatever’ gesture with his head while he thinks about Trine Juul-Osmundsen, his teenage crush.

‘She can’t have been a particularly good boss,’ Sandland declares.

‘No, perhaps not,’ Bjarne says quietly.

‘Sexual harassment in the workplace,’ Sandland goes on and looks at him. ‘I’ve got a friend in the force who was the victim of that. It was fairly low-key, but still very upsetting. Looks, comments, whispers and gossiping behind her back.’

Bjarne suddenly feels the need to undo the top button of his shirt.

‘And she told her boss, but you think he did anything about it?’

Sandland shakes her head before Bjarne has time to answer.

‘A good manager would have done something,’ she says, without taking her eyes off him. ‘A good manager nips that kind of thing in the bud.’

And now, for the first time, it is Bjarne’s turn to look away. He seeks refuge in his beer where the foam clings to the inside of the glass. He doesn’t know what to say next so he looks across the room. An early Thursday evening. Life and laughter. Good times.

Sandland raises her glass towards him.

‘But cheers,’ she says and smiles her most dazzling smile at him. Bjarne returns her toast and empties his glass.

A word has formed in his mouth when he looks at her again.

But he can’t get it past his lips.

Henning wakes up with a jerk, not entirely sure where he is. Then he recognises the walls of his living room, the ceiling, the matchbox and the Coke can on the table next to the sofa. And before he has opened his eyes properly, it comes back to him, the events of the last five days, everything he has found out. The past has risen like a multi-headed hydra and it bites and snaps at him from all sides.

Henning looks at the clock on his mobile and sees that much of the day has passed already. Fortunately he agreed with Heidi Kjus last night that he can come into the office late today. So he takes a long shower while he makes up his mind to deal with one question at a time. If the East Europeans who terrified the living daylights out of Andreas Kjær have links to Ørjan Mjønes, then someone must know who they are. As long as I get a name , Henning thinks, then I’ll be able to track them down .

Henning has just switched on the kettle when his mobile beeps. He checks the message, sees that it is from the 123news breaking news service.

Truls Ove Henriksen has been appointed as the new Justice Secretary following the resignation of Trine Juul-Osmundsen. Henriksen, who comes from Tromsø, was previously a political adviser.

Henning has barely heard of Henriksen, but he still clicks on the link that follows the text message. The main text doesn’t add much more information about the appointment itself, but Henning notices that Harald Ullevik, considered by many to be Trine’s obvious successor, has resigned with immediate effect. No reasons given other than he ‘has decided to leave the government’.

Henning smiles; he would love to be a fly on the wall in the Justice Department right now, but he has more important things to do.

Bjarne Brogeland’s voice is sleepy when Henning finally gets hold of him. He, too, would appear to be taking it easy today.

‘Thanks for yesterday,’ Henning says.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’m glad it ended the way it did.’

‘Mm.’

‘I’ve just got one question for you. The Swedish Albanian criminals Ørjan Mjønes used to work with. Have you caught them yet?’

Brogeland doesn’t reply immediately.

‘You’re calling to ask me that now?’

‘Yes.’

Again it takes a while before Brogeland says anything. Henning hears him yawn.

‘Rough night?’

‘Are you sure that it’s morning?’

‘Quite.’

‘Right, the Swedish Albanians,’ Brogeland says. ‘I can double-check for you, but the last time we spoke about them, they were lying low. I guess most of them have left Norway.’

‘Scared that they would be banged up as well?’

‘Probably.’

‘So, in theory, they could be anywhere.’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Okay,’ Henning sighs and they hang up.

But even if they have gone underground, Henning thinks, it must still be possible to find them. It’s just a matter of asking the right people.

Bjarne lay in his bed all night, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. At one point he got up, went to his study and sat down with the application he had prepared for Vestfold Police. He reread his bombastic statements, ambitions and visions. Then he scrunched up the pages and threw them in the wastepaper basket.

Now he walks into the kitchen where Alisha sits on her Tripp Trapp chair doing everything but what she was supposed to do, which is to eat her breakfast. He stops and gazes at her tenderly.

So big and yet still so small.

And he doesn’t know if there is any point in him trying to explain to her why the evenings come and go without him being there for her bedtime. But he owes it to her to try, perhaps tonight, even though he isn’t sure he knows the answer himself. If what he does makes a difference, if he helps make Oslo safer.

‘Hi, girls,’ he says and walks across to the cupboard by the window and takes out a bottle. He removes a few more until he finds the one he is looking for. Unopened and dusty. With a well-aimed puff he blows away a layer of grey household dirt and looks at the brown contents of the bottle that bears the good old Norwegian name Braastad Cognac.

‘What are you doing with that?’ Anita asks, sounding alarmed. ‘Surely you’re not going to drink cognac at this hour?’

‘Of course not,’ Bjarne says and laughs, then he rubs his eyes and stretches his hands high above his head. He finds a bag for the bottle.

‘Where are you going?’

Bjarne gives her a kiss on the cheek and is still smiling when he says: ‘I’m off to see a friend.’

It is early evening when Henning makes another visit to the building where his mother lives, but this time he doesn’t let himself into her flat. Instead he knocks on her neighbour’s door. He hears footsteps and the door opens. The caretaker Karl Ove Marcussen, a man with a beer belly, thin longish hair and six-day-old stubble that gives his face scattered patches of colour, looks him up and down.

‘Hi,’ Henning says. ‘I’m Christine’s son.’

He jerks a thumb in the direction of his mother’s front door.

‘Ah,’ Marcussen says and nods. ‘You rang me the other day.’

‘That’s right.’

Marcussen nods again. His stomach wobbles.

‘What the hell happened to your face?’

‘Microlight flight accident,’ Henning replies. ‘Dangerous things.’